


We're All Mad Here

by scrub456



Series: Singular [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Best Friends, Coping Mechanisms, Epic Friendship, Fluff, Gen, Helpful Sherlock, John has a bad day, No Angst, No Smut, no discernable plot, slight OOC John, slight OOC Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 17:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4633980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's had a bad day. Sherlock is both the problem and the solution.</p><p>This bit of friendship fluff is set early in the partnership, let's say between s1.e2 and s1.e3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're All Mad Here

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not part of the "Essential" series. I haven't abandoned "Crucial," I just had one of _those_ weeks (you know the ones), and needed a little fluff. I'm not a Johnlock 'shipper; in my mind our boys are platonic soulmates. That being said, take this as you will. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

"You're laughing at me!"

"No! I promise, I'm not. I am most definitely not laughing _at_ you." Even as the words left his mouth Sherlock had to stifle an errant snicker. He attempted, and failed, to cover it with a cough.

"Perhaps you need some water," John grumbled, clearly cross. He kept his back to his friend in an effort to hide the embarrassment flushed across his cheeks. Burying his face in his hands, John propped his elbows on the kitchen table and groaned.

Sherlock snorted, "Yes, I think I do." With an invigorated bounce to his step, he made his way around the table to the sink and poured the glass of water. In typical Sherlock fashion, he spun around dramatically. The water was all but forgotten as he raked his eyes over his friend.

"John?"

"Oh my God, Sherlock. Please. Just get your water and leave me alone!" Though muffled through John's hands, the words were pointed and intended to drive the consulting detective away.

He was having none of it.

"John, I am being completely serious when I say I was not laughing at you! I wasn't! I was however laughing because of what you said, do you understand?"

John scoffed. "What? It's the same thing!"

"It's  not!" Sherlock was growing impatient. "You can be so dense sometimes, John! I laughed because what you said delighted me. It was intended as a compliment."

It was John who snorted this time.

"Worst. Compliment. Ever." the doctor snapped. "God Sherlock, I... No, never mind. I don't want to do this right now. The timer on the oven is going to go off in about 20 minutes. Please take the shepherd's pie out... _don't you dare wrinkle your nose, you requested it_... and turn the oven off. Eat. Don't eat. I don't care. I'm going to bed."

"What!? Why? It's not even 7 PM yet! You'll wake too early, and be unbearable tomorrow. Think, John!" Sherlock's mind raced for excuses to detain his friend. He really had been delighted by what John said, and wanted to discuss it at length. "And for all you know, I'll ignore the timer, and let the flat burn down around us! It'll be all your fault!"

"A risk I am willing to take," John growled. He stood up from the table abruptly and nearly knocked his chair over. He took a page from the _Sherlock Holmes Manuel for Effective Tantrums_ , slammed the chair into place, turned dramatically with a huff, and began his stomped retreat.

With a grace that was simply unfair, Sherlock dove around the table and imposed himself between John and his get away.

"Move." It was not a request.

"No." Definitely no sign of surrender.

"Move. Or I will do it for you." John's Captain was showing.

"Stop being an idiot John!"

"Stop being a bloody two year old and let me through!"

"Did you get rejected by some dull woman again?" Sherlock decided to change his approach.

"Wha... excuse you! What are you on about?" John sputtered, in shock from the brakes being suddenly thrown on the shouting match. He scrabbled to recover, but wasn't quick enough.

"You're agitated. You were agitated when you arrived home after your shift, and again after returning with the shopping..."

"That I had to leave the flat to get the shopping so that I could be agitated on my second return _could_ be a contributing factor," John snipped.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Why are you agitated, if not a woman?"

Looking his flat mate up and down, John gestured broadly in Sherlock’s direction.

"Me?" Sherlock started to laugh, but thought better of it immediately. He fancied himself rather skilled at projecting his thoughts with just his eyes. John, on the other hand, was a master in the trade. And at that moment, John's eyes clearly told Sherlock: _Please. Go ahead and laugh. I **dare** you. _

"What did I do?" Sherlock was incredulous.

For the first time that day, John managed a sharp, sarcastic sort of laugh. "For starters, that case last night?"

"What!? Lestrade told me it was a seven, possibly an eight. Based on the information he provided, I had to concur. How could I possibly know it would end up being an accident and not a murder?"

"I believe I said just that as soon as we walked in the warehouse!"

Sherlock sniffed, "I recall nothing of the sort."

"You pompous..." John took a deep breath. "I pointed out the broken latch on the door when we walked in! You shushed me, and began dashing about making mad deductions."

"Your statement was simply conjecture at the time. We had no evidence." Sherlock shrugged.

"Ah, but you _do_ actually recall the fact that I noticed it. Made a case for it in fact. And you still proceeded to drag me all over London, in a downpour, all night long, only to return to the warehouse, declare it an accident, and take all the credit for _deducing_ that the door had malfunctioned." John crossed his arms over his chest, and stared Sherlock down.

"I... Uhm..." Sherlock suddenly realized the tables had been turned. This was new, and he didn't care for it one ounce. "Don't you _like_ going on cases?"

"Of course I do! I also appreciate making a contribution. And I don't often expect to be acknowledged for my part in your cases..."

" _Our_ cases," Sherlock whispered.

John shot him a look. "But the one time I actually figured it out, before you or anyone else, you brush me aside, and then at your big reveal, you nearly quoted me word for word, and they ate it up!"

"John, I'm sorry... I... you know my methods..." Sherlock certainly seemed contrite, but John had seen him play act too many times; he held up his hand to silence the apology.

"Not done," John's tone had gone flat.

"By the time we got home, _this morning_ , I didn't even have time for a shower before work, despite being soaked to the bone and chilled through."

"You could have called in," Sherlock supplied.

"No I couldn't! The only reason I managed to get this shift is because one of the other doctors was off! Sarah's mad at you about God knows what, and she's taking it out on me! Hasn't scheduled me for two weeks. Not to mention that news story yesterday about the rancid beans in Bora Bora. By 7:30 this morning, half of London had diagnosed itself with the black plague!" John was shouting nonsensically now.

"John. It was chicken in Indonesia that cause salmonella. You're a doctor."

"I was being flippant! I know what it was, because it's all I heard all day long!" Suddenly John's shoulders drooped in exhaustion. "God, I'm so exhausted, and right in the middle of the day, who should come waltzing in but your idiot brother."

"What? Why was Mycroft at your clinic?" Sherlock's head snapped up in surprise.

"Because you wouldn't answer your phone, and you had Mrs. Hudson lock him out! So instead he barged right into the exam room..." John paused, and then slowly scrubbed his hand down his face.

"Oh my God, Sherlock. I was giving a prostate exam to a 62 year old, obese, Armenian man with absolutely no modesty." Both men shuddered at the mental image. "And in strolls Mycroft, just proper as you please. I wish you could have seen his face. Mycroft's, that is. Mr. Bjishkian was rather excited to make the acquaintance of the British government."

"No. No... that... are you making this up? John, I swear, if you are lying to me about this..." Sherlock attempted to mask the devious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, all to no avail.

"God as my witness," John held his hand up as if making an oath, and grinned. "I still have no idea what he wanted." John shrugged. "But the minute I stepped out of that exam room to let Mr. Bjishkian get dressed, Sarah cornered me. Yeah... I'm on prostate exam duty for the foreseeable future, so thanks for that. _Answer your bloody phone_." John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, who had the common sense to fidget uncomfortably.

"I did get a bit of revenge though," John’s eyes lit up, and he ducked his head. "Oh God. I expect any minute now a hoard of armed men are going to crash through the door and take me away. If I go missing, just know... it's definitely Mycroft."

Sherlock was very nearly vibrating with anticipation. "What? What did you do?"

All John could do was force a whisper. "I gave Mr. Bjishkian Mycroft's number."

"You..." Sherlock's eyes grew wide, and he clamped both hands over his mouth.

John huffed a laugh. "I'm definitely going to hell."

Unable to contain it any longer, Sherlock collapsed against the door frame and laughed until tears streamed down his face. "Oh, John. You never have to give me another gift ever again. This. This is the  gift that keeps on giving. Thank you!"

John stood quietly by, watching Sherlock try to compose himself. He mumbled something unintelligible, and slumped back down into the kitchen chair.

"John?" Sherlock was still fighting off the uncontrollable urge to giggle at Mycroft's misfortune, but he recognized immediately the shift in John's mood.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I had a rubbish day, and I took it out on you. I just... you caught me off my guard when you came into the kitchen earlier. I was embarrassed, and when you started laughing, I just took it all wrong." John resumed his previous posture of elbows propped on the table and face buried in hands.

"John, come into the sitting room for a moment." Sherlock gently put his hand around his friend's bicep to urge him up. John complied, but looked utterly defeated in doing so.

Sherlock guided John to his arm chair, collected a few sheets of paper from his music stand, took up his violin and bow, and sat down across from his friend. Without any explanation, Sherlock began playing the piece he had been working on earlier, before this whole argument happened.

It was, John thought, the single most beautiful piece of music he had ever heard. It began softly, so very gentle. You had to really listen to hear the complex nuances. Eventually the piece would build in volume and pace, in turn joyful, then sorrowful, definitely cheeky, occasionally passionate, and bits that reminded John of military marches were tucked in here and there. He was no expert in music, but he didn't think the individual parts should work together as well as they did. In reality, it was near perfection.

John hummed along quietly. Sherlock stopped playing suddenly.

"You recognize this then?" Sherlock asked with a tentative smile.

"Well, yes. You were playing it earlier. And..." John's eyes clouded over and he looked away.

"And?"

Exhaling deeply, John looked Sherlock in the eyes. "And sometimes at night. When I can't sleep because..."

Not ready to discuss the nightmares then. "Music has always helped me to relax when I'm feeling... restless, or agitated," Sherlock offered. The corner of John's mouth twitched slightly, but his eyes said _thank you for understanding._

"I suppose we all have something we do that helps us calm down. Is that what you were doing earlier?" Sherlock didn't want to press his friend, but if his assessment was correct, it was possibly the most endearing thing he had learned about John Watson yet.

John nodded slightly. "Will you tell me about it?" Sherlock made sure to keep any sort of coaxing out of his tone.

Tracing an invisible pattern on the arm of the chair with his finger, John sighed softly. "I always wanted to be a doctor. Even as a child. When the other kids were looking at those colorful story books, I was looking at books about human anatomy. All my art projects growing up featured skeletons. More than a few teachers tried to convince my parents I needed psychological help."

The kitchen timer dinged. Sherlock growled. "Do not move!" He leapt from his chair, and made a great show of removing their dinner from the oven, and actually turning the thing off. He flung himself back into his chair, with a bit too much flourish, and motioned to John. "Please, continue."

John looked up at Sherlock with a lopsided smile and shook his head in disbelief. "As soon as I learned to read, I started trying to memorize all the bones of the body. My pronunciation was horrid, but I knew them all by the time I was nine years old."

Sherlock nodded in appreciation. The accompanying smile gave away his admiration.

"I would list them off as a distraction when I couldn't sleep at night, or when my father would get..." John shook his head and closed his eyes. "He wasn't a nice man." Pausing only a moment, John cleared his throat.

"In university we learned the names of the bones in Latin. Most everyone else was hung up on memorizing them in English, so I took my time and learned them all in Latin. That won me no favors with my classmates." John chuckled at that, and Sherlock smiled cautiously back.

"Once I learned them in Latin, I would list them that way instead. In the military, everything is hurry up and wait. Everything. But I'd list bones in Latin for as long as we had to wait. Or when things would get bad. Afterwards, some guys would drink, some would do... any number of things. And I'd just review bones. Some of the guys heard the Latin and thought I was praying all those times." John huffed a laugh, "I guess they weren't too far off."

"Repetitive and comforting, just like prayer for those who believe such things," Sherlock smiled in understanding.

"And I just never had any reason to stop. My therapist seems to think it's not too messed up. Some people count to 100 when they're trying to compose themselves. I list the bones of the human body in Latin." John shrugged.

"And I list different types of cigar ash," Sherlock grinned. "Or any other of the countless lists I have going at the time." Finally, finally John returned a truly genuine smile. Relief flooded Sherlock's chest.

"The reason I laughed earlier, when you first told me you were listing the human bones in Latin was, well, because I couldn't imagine anything more perfect." Sherlock looked at John hopefully, but his friend appeared to be very confused. At that, Sherlock began playing once more.

"Let me explain," he kept playing softly. "I am complete rubbish when it comes to other people's feelings, this you are aware of. But some time ago I noticed that you have... _difficulty_ falling asleep, and often, your more restless nights follow days when I had been particularly difficult or demanding." Sherlock searched John's face for a response. The doctor still appeared confused, but the edges and lines had softened noticeably.

"On those nights, I play this song. You always seem to calm when I play, so I like to imagine I'm helping. It's pure sentiment, I know."

"It does help," John whispered. His eyes spoke depths of gratitude.

Sherlock smiled sadly. "I knew very well I was a major contributor to your agitation earlier, for which I do sincerely apologize. I am still learning this whole friendship..." he almost said nonsense, but wisely decided against it, "business. I wanted to ensure you had a restful evening as you were clearly exhausted, so I did the only thing I knew to do. I played."

"I will never be proficient in discussing emotions, the need for such conversation escapes me. But this I can do." Sherlock closed his eyes and just played for several moments. When he finally looked up, John was watching him intently.

"This is my own composition, and I never write lyrics, so earlier when I heard you singing along I was _intrigued_ to say the very least. You are a very proficient tenor, by the way. _Some_ might even say your voice is lovely." Sherlock smiled at the blush the crept across John's face at the compliment.

"Imagine my surprise when I realized you were singing along in Latin of all things! And when you realized you'd been found out, and explained what the words meant, that you were listing the bones of the human body... I laughed because such a simple thing added so much depth and character to the piece. You had inserted a part of yourself on your own, and it delighted me to hear you do so."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed in pure delight. He stopped playing suddenly, and laid his violin aside. He thrust the sheets of hand written music into John's hands, stood, and began pacing the room as he waited for John to catch up.

It took a few seconds for John to realize what he held in his hands. Scrawled across the top of the first page, where a title should have been was simply _John_. "You... you wrote this? For me? You wrote this music for me. But..." John blinked. It was all he could do.

Sherlock spun around to face his friend. "Not _for_ you. _About_ you. Everything I've observed about you, or learned from you, it's all there. And now it forever requires the accompaniment of a tenor voice singing the bones of the human body in Latin. You are a complex man, John Watson. I don't believe I shall ever complete this piece."

John gasped. "Sherlock... I... But, this," John held up the pages, "is so beautiful. It's so... perfect, and lovely. And I'm... I am _not_."

"We will have to agree to disagree on that point, then."

With a roll of his eyes, John huffed a laugh. "Oh my God, Sherlock. You wrote a song about me. What am I supposed to do with that?" His smile had returned.

Cocking an eyebrow, Sherlock pretended to think deeply for a moment. "Say thank you? Shower the composer with compliments? John, you don't have to _do_ anything. Friends give each other gifts, do they not?"

"Well, yes, but," John hesitated, looked at the sheet music once more, and then back to Sherlock, "but why _me_? What's so special about me? _You're_ a genius. A bloody brilliant detective. An accomplished chemist. And now I find out, a musical phenom! God, Sherlock! What is there that I could possibly offer you? Why would you want me for a friend?"

To the doctor's surprise, Sherlock only smiled warmly in return. "I'm afraid, dear Watson, you are the only one who believes any of those things to be true. And not only do you believe them, but you take great pains to make certain I am aware that you believe them. It is only logical then, that I would assume that you are my friend. Have I misinterpreted the data?"

"No, no you haven't misinterpreted anything," John shook his head, but smiled in return. "Brilliant as usual."

The flat mates sat in companionable silence for a few moments. "So, you are my friend. Am I... do you count me as your friend, John?"

John appeared taken aback. "Yes! Yeah, of course you are!"

Sherlock hummed with contentment. "Very well. Now, come along, I've prepared your dinner."

" _You've_ prepared dinner!? _I_ went to get the shopping. _I_ assembled the ingredients. And _I_ put it in the oven!" John crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yes, well, _I_ took it out of the oven, and _I_ am the one who remembered to turn the oven off," Sherlock shrugged.

"You only knew to do those things because _I_ told you to do them!" John stood in front of Sherlock, arms still crossed. "You don't get the credit this time."

"We'll share credit then. Unless it's inedible. Then it's yours." Sherlock stood and ducked past John to get to the kitchen. "John, do you know where the hydrochloric acid is?" 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John shouted back, "Under the sink... Wait... _Why_ do you need hydrochloric acid? Oh God. No experiments during dinner, not after last time. You know the rules!" John dashed to the kitchen, quietly mumbling the Latin names of the human bones under his breath.

**Author's Note:**

> I picked the Alice In Wonderland quote for the title because, because one does not have to be mad to live at 221b, but it helps. And John, dear... you fit in rather nicely.


End file.
